Hearing the Mockingjay
by herointhecrowd
Summary: No one can blame Katniss for being cautious. No one can blame her for doing anything to keep them alive, even if it means pretending. But sometimes, all you need to hear is a mockingjay to prove what seems fake may not be at all. The Cave.


Disclaimer: These characters are in no way mine, though every day I pray that Finnick will come back and call me baby;)

~THG~

Watching him lay there, writhing in pain is perhaps one of the most horrific things I've ever witnessed in my entire life. Living in District 12, you see a lot of pain. Many young people leave their houses with their families in tact and carry themselves to school, pretending the weight on their shoulders isn't enough to crack their malnourished bodies, only to return eight hours later to find daddy's gone, and mommy doesn't know what to do. It's a part of life, and death, where we come from. I'm used to the gray that swallows District 12. I'm used to watching children cry from the hunger in their bellies. I can handle the pain that accompanies my lifestyle.

But I can't watch Peeta suffer.

The sweat pools on his forehead and he groans meekly, doing his best to strangle the noise in his throat. We haven't heard anything about Cato, or Thresh, or any of the others in days now. What we do know is that Cato won't waste time waiting for Peeta to heal to slaughter us both.

I have to take my eyes off him somehow. His hair is disheveled and dirty, and his face is covered in mud and blood, but that's not what makes him so hard to look at. He's freezing on the outside, but I can tell by the tortured look on his face that the fire in his leg is spreading throughout his leg. Every day the inflammation and his sickness gets worse. Blood has soaked both of us at this point; we've stopped trying to keep pressure on the wound. It doesn't seem to be doing much for the swelling anyway.

I miss his eyes. In District 12, our colors are washed out or drenched in soot. I'm not used to blues that deep, that dimensional. They're a mystery to me. Perhaps that's why it's so hard for me to trust him, even now in this god forsaken hole.

It sounds silly, after all that's he's done for me. Evidently he cares for me. I don't doubt that what he said in the interview was absolutely true, but the allure of victory could mean the world to him. It could mean the respect from his brothers, from his mother, from everyone back home. It could mean beautiful women falling at his feet. After all, he deserves victory just as much as I do, as any of us do. Perhaps more.

But I can't think about that anymore. The more my mind meditates on him, the more confusing Haymitch's words seem. Love sells.

Would it really be such a sin to pretend? Would it really be that damaging to the boy with the bread if the girl on fire pretended to love him?

Fire burns bread when bread gets to close, I suppose.

Mother always used to tell me that love wasn't something you pretended. She loved my father. She loved him with her heart and soul, and that was evident in her dedication to his memory, even if it meant the abandonment of her children. Could I even begin to pretend to feel the heat and emotion my mother felt?

I looked down and across the floor of the cave to where he's laying propped up against the rock, his body soaking up the cool from the pool of water beside him. I can hear his strangled breathing from across the cave. I don't dare go closer, as of yet. I'm on guard duty, and I don't trust my vigilance near him.

Does that mean anything? That when I'm near him, he's all I can think of? Even memories of Gale seem to be few and far between, replaced only with my fascination with Peeta Mellark.

My eyes slip from his tortured face to the dark night outside of the cave. In only an hour, the sun will rise, bringing another day of hell where I have to find some way to keep us both alive and pray that the numbers of our opposition are dropping. I know we need sponsors. We haven't gotten a single parachute in days, and I know Haymitch is doing his best to scramble to keep us alive.

I know I hold the key to keeping Peeta alive. Keeping him alive means breaking his heart. My chest aches as I realize what I must do, and my gaze falls back on him. He's shivering with the poisoning, tears streaming down his face and the grunts of his pain echo in the darkness. I slowly crawl to his side with the slowness of child, before I reach him. I let one hand fall onto his chest, and his eyes slowly open, the fear subsiding in his body, leaving behind only death in his essence and his shaking.

"Hey." His voice is too quiet to even be considered a murmur. The quiet of it is marred with the harshness of pain and blood poisoning. Still, there's something intensely beautiful about the concern that waits in his heart. It's not concern for himself, but for me.

"Hi Peeta." I'm shocked by how quiet my own voice is.

His hand reaches over and touches my back, pulling me down to his side. I fit into him easily, my head under his chin and my arm draped over his middle. "No more need to guard. Sleep for a while. I'm up now."

"Peeta…" He's sick, and he should be sleeping. I know that as well as he does. But he doesn't allow me to protest. He simply starts humming, and I find myself drifting away.

"Stay with me." I almost don't let myself say it, but it's there, none the less. I have to ask myself, suddenly, was I pretending? Or did I want him there?

"Always." And just like that, the girl on fire felt the heat in her throat, in her belly. I felt the realization that maybe it's not about pretending at all. Maybe this is as real as it gets. As clear as the mockingjay's voice, I know I have feelings for Peeta Mellark.

And the truth is, I'm okay with that.

~THG~

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not my best, but definitely something I enjoyed. It doesn't involve a lot of thought. But don't worry, I'll be back in no time:)


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